


Find A Way

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, M/M, Secret Relationship, i refuse to let anything tear them apart okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 07:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12249726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: “Sorry,” Drummond murmurs. “You don’t want to hear about that, do you?”Alfred looks down for a careful moment. “Come to me tonight, if you can.”Fix-it for 2x06.





	Find A Way

Drummond hurries through the palace, having delivered the latest batch of papers to the Queen. There is little time before the debate and he needs to return to the House and the Prime Minister.

Despite his haste, it is a relief to see Alfred coming down the stairs towards him. Alfred’s smile when he sees him is radiant, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud.

They have not seen each other in a few days. Drummond has been kept busy at the House, and in those meetings he has attended at the palace, Alfred has not been there in his customary place behind the Queen.

Even being close to Alfred again—hearing him say his name so delightedly—soothes something within him. He returns the smile, hoping to convey through his eyes alone how grateful he is to see him.

“I didn’t know you were at the palace,” Alfred says.

“I had some papers for the Queen from the Prime Minister.”

A heavy silence follows, where neither of them quite knows what to say. He has built up so many things to talk to Alfred about over the last few days apart, but now is not the time or place to say them. They are both acutely aware of the servants milling around.

“I should go,” Drummond says reluctantly. “There’s a debate on the Irish question.”

“Yes, the Queen talks about nothing else.”

“The Prime Minister is doing what he can,” Drummond responds testily, even though he knows Alfred does not deserve his irritation. “He can’t alter his policy just because the Queen has read some letters in The Times.”

Alfred takes a step forwards, almost involuntarily, as though their bodies are physically incapable of being more than a few inches apart. Or perhaps he doesn’t want to be overheard disagreeing with the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary in public.

“The Irish are starving,” he says, brow wrinkled in confusion at Drummond's attitude.

“Then the Queen should reach into her own pocket,” Drummond returns before he can think about it. “Women are so damn emotional!” He doesn’t mean to say it, but he is tired and frustrated, and wants nothing more than to be in Alfred’s arms. He is not really talking about the Queen, of course, and Alfred knows it.

Alfred looks up at him slowly. “Women like your fiancée.” His voice is flat and it tears something within Drummond to hear it. Alfred is normally so expressive, except when he has hurt him.

“She’s insisting on setting a date right in the middle of the session,” he says desperately. He has needed to tell Alfred this for days, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth he wishes he could take them back.

Alfred’s polite nod is almost too much for him to bear.

“Sorry,” Drummond murmurs, unable to stop his gaze from settling on Alfred’s lips before dropping to study the floor. “You don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

There is an apology in his eyes for the bitterness in his tone. He’s aware he’s broken the one rule of their understanding that they put in place when they agreed to do this, but he feels like he’s been knocked out of orbit and is hurtling towards the sun, getting further away from Alfred with every moment that passes.

Alfred looks down for a careful moment, then glances hurriedly around. He lowers his voice. “Come to me tonight, if you can. I’ll be on the balcony.”

Drummond hesitates. It is a difficult time at the minute and it won’t be easy to get away from Parliament, but if Alfred is willing to offer him understanding after the way he just behaved then it is the least he deserves.

“You can bring some papers for the Queen,” Alfred suggests, a touch of desperation in his tone. It’s as close to begging as he can get.

Drummond glances at the floor, slightly abashed. Only Alfred knows the real reason he turns up at the palace so frequently with papers that could be delivered by a messenger instead. He looks back up, agreement in his eyes.

“I’ll try,” he murmurs, giving a small nod of acquiescence, enough for Alfred to see, but no one else. “Goodbye, Alfred,” he says, voice loud for the benefit of any servants within earshot, but hoping that the use of his name will be enough to convey that he doesn’t mean the finality of his words.

 

-

 

True to his word, Alfred is on the balcony when Drummond arrives at the palace that night, clutching an empty folder in his hands to keep up the pretence for his visit.

“Lord Alfred,” he says as he approaches, announcing himself the way he would if he were not expected. This is routine to them now; to pretend to stumble across each other, when they have actually engineered the meeting.

Alfred turns, as always, with an expression of pleasant surprise painted on his face.

“You came.” This time there is genuine wonder in his voice, as though he didn’t expect Drummond to turn up tonight.

“Of course I did,” Drummond says, like it was never in doubt.

Wordlessly, they stick to routine. He gets out his tinderbox and Alfred passes him a cigarette; Alfred asks politely about the House and Drummond answers as a politician would. To anyone wandering past the balcony they are as they always are. Only their eyes tell that there is a deeper conversation going on beneath the words.

When their cigarettes are finished, Alfred gives him a small smile.

“Come with me,” he says, and they turn to take the familiar steps to Alfred’s chambers.

 

-

 

As soon as the door is closed behind them, Alfred pulls Drummond close to him. Drummond wraps his arms around him gratefully, dropping his head onto Alfred’s shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles desperately, voice muffled by the fabric of Alfred’s jacket. He knows Alfred deserves more than the few angry, desperate exclamations of earlier, but does not want to hurt him further by explaining if he does not wish it. “I shouldn’t be putting this all on you.”

Alfred turns to press a fervent kiss into his hair. “Talk to me,” he pleads, and Drummond cannot refuse him if he is certain.  
  
Reluctantly he moves from the warmth of Alfred’s arms, to sit heavily on the edge of the bed. Alfred braves sitting next to him, offering wordless comfort as Drummond struggles for words.

“Everything just seems to be going wrong,” he whispers despairingly, looking at the floor. He cannot bear to look at Alfred’s expression, and the sadness he knows he will find in his eyes. He searches for the best way to explain. “Do you know why Peel is so reluctant to agree with the Queen?” he tries.

He sees Alfred shakes his head out of the corner of his eye.

“To send relief to Ireland will mean he has no choice but to repeal the corn laws,” Drummond explains. “Although that’s not necessarily a bad thing”—Alfred says nothing, but Drummond has a feeling he agrees with that sentiment—“it was a cornerstone of this government. To repeal the law will destabilise the party.” He brings himself to meet Alfred’s gaze. No matter the pain he is about to cause, he finds he has to look into that beloved face. “Do you see?”

Alfred is quiet, and Drummond cannot bear it. He needs to give voice to his fear; needs Alfred to hear it and then perhaps they can rebuild together.

“If the party rebels, Peel will most likely be voted out. If he is no longer be Prime Minister, I will no longer be his Private Secretary.” The words leave him in a rush. “The Whigs will probably take over, and someone else will take my place. You’ll have someone else by your side.”

Realisation dawns heartbreakingly in Alfred’s eyes. He reaches out to take Drummond’s hand where it rests on the bed between them, and holds tightly.

“It’s selfish, I know,” Drummond says bitterly. “People are dying and all I can think about is you. How I can’t bear to be without you.” He lifts their joined hands and presses a desperate kiss to the backs of Alfred’s fingers. “I can just about cope with the thought of my upcoming marriage, as long as I can continue to see you. But if this comes to pass, I’ll no longer have a reason to come to the palace. I might never see you again—never be with you again.”

He looks up at Alfred to find his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“We’ll find a way,” Alfred says determinedly. “I know I shouldn’t make promises, but I can’t bear to be without you either.” A tear drops onto his cheek. Drummond wipes it away with a gentle finger. “All I want is to be with you. Whatever happens, I love you, and we’ll find a way. Okay?”

Drummond smiles at him. “Okay,” he agrees.

“Good,” Alfred smiles, and leans forwards to press their lips together. “No one can take this away from us, not if we don’t let them.”

 


End file.
